


No Fun, All Games

by Hidn



Series: Tank Treads and Empty Heads [2]
Category: Project Wingman (Video Game)
Genre: Tankers (Ew.)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:29:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29802258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hidn/pseuds/Hidn
Summary: In which Warlord 4 and 2 actually appear. I promise nothing.
Relationships: no. - Relationship
Series: Tank Treads and Empty Heads [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2190561
Kudos: 2





	No Fun, All Games

"Gunner! Rotate turret to bearing Two-Seven-Three!" Kirk's voice rang through the tank's intercom, but with the way Kirk gave orders, you could hear it without the intercom. 

"Driver! Rotate Hull to bearing Three-One-Five!" Dirk pulled on the left stick, and pressed down on the throttle. The tank whirred loudly, and the chassis began to rotate. They were buttoned up, and visibility was rough, but Dirk kept an eye out the windows and an eye on the compass he had. 0, 347, 322, 315. 

"Righty-o! Driver, Advance 10 meters, poke us out behind the ridge!" The tracks dug deep into the ground, spitting dirt behind it. Dirk pushed the throttle, moving forward slowly. He stepped off and hit the brake, the tank moving forward just enough for the turret to stick out.

“Gunner, see the target?” Kirk called. The turret of a BLUFOR tank was visible above a bush, facing the other way.

“Target spotted, Cap!” Jerk’s words spat out from behind the cigarette in his mouth, unlit and chewed through.

"Fire!" The cannon's report filled the tank, lifting the tank's front left tracks off of the ground. The round hit home on the target, the turret going up in massive fountains of sparks.

"Red 4, that's a kill." The Sicario AWACS, Galaxy, was running this operation. He saw everything, and told most of it. Really, it depended on how much he liked your crew that day. Or who was over his shoulder.

A round clunked back into the gun, deftly lifted and placed in by the tank’s loader. Freidreich was a beast of a man. Nearly as tall as the tank itself, he was certainly built like one. He loaded shells with ease, and in his hands they seemed to weigh as much as pillows. The gun breech shut, and the gun was ready.

“Driver! Advance 1 Meter! Pull us out from this ridge!” Dirk gently pressed on the throttle, slowly moving forward. Kirk peered through his optics, straining his eyes to find another target. For a moment, the only noise was the whirring of the tank’s engine, and the breaths of the crew. 

“Ok, we’ve got to get to the objective. We’re on the clock already - don’t wanna push it. Driver! Pull us out, adjust to heading, uhhh-” Dirk heard the shuffle and crinkle of paper over the intercom.

“Where’s my fucken compass - heading Zero-Seven-Zero past the ridge!” Kirk’s command voice had faltered, but he picked it right back up. Dirk pulled lightly on the right stick, and hit the gas. The tank jetted forward in a light circle, clearing the ridge and heading into the open field behind it. Dirk pushed both sticks forward, stopping the turn.

"Driver! Full Throttle!" Dirk complied, the engine roaring as the tank accelerated. The few bushes and trees that Dirk could see began to speed past. The force of being pushed back into his chair was strangely comforting. 

“Galaxy to Red 4.” The Radio crackled to life. Kirk glanced down to his radio box, whacking the switch to talk.

“This is Red 4, send.”

“Red 1 has been neutralized. You are the last REDFOR element in play.”

“Roger Galaxy.” Kirk turned the radio back to intercom, swearing under his breath. Dirk was slightly nervous before, but he noticed his heart rate began to pick up now. The air in the tank began to feel heavier. That could just be the Air Conditioning breaking again, but hopefully it wasn’t. 

The treeline to the tank’s left broke for a moment. If Dirk had been looking harder, he would have noticed that one of the bushes was out of place. Maybe if the weather cooperated, he would have seen the glint. If he had looked hard enough, he might be able to tell that the odd-looking bush in the shade was a tank. 

But he didn’t.

A moment too late, Jerk did.

“TANK! LEFT!” Jerk didn’t bother with the intercom. He just yelled, the chewed and half-swallowed cigarette flying out of his mouth. The turret span left, Dirk slammed the brakes, Kirk’s head whirled, and Freidreich braced.

All too late.

The BLUFOR tank fired, the shockwave ripping the hastily applied camouflage clean off. The shell spun towards the tank, and in a heart-stopping moment, slammed into the turret ring. Dirk whacked his head on the side of the hatch, the rest of the crew getting likewise thrown. Fountains of sparks of every colour shot up from the turret. The blue powder from the shell covered nearly half the tank, and left a cloud in the air.

“ALCON, ALCON, this is Galaxy. Blue 2 has neutralized Red 4. No REDFOR elements left in play. BLUFOR wins!” In just a moment, the radio channels opened with a flurry of activity. A mixture of insults, complaints, payouts for bets, and general unsportsmanlike behavior filled the airwaves. Dirk sighed, and opened the driver’s hatch. Kirk pushed open the cupola, brushing aside spent gunpowder and cardboard from the fireworks that had been taped to the turret. He hopped out onto the ground, followed by Jerk and Freidreich. 

The BLUFOR tank rumbled out of the treeline, it’s crew likewise in some form of dismount. The name of the tank, “Sweet Sherry,” was emblazoned proudly on the barrel. Like Dirk’s tank, it was an M/L-551, the Sheridan. It’s driver, Taffy, had her hatch open too. She often had a smile on her face, but this time it was unbearably smug. 

“Eat my ass, Kirk!” The commander of Sherry, Dally, shouted. 

“We had this in the fucken bag and you know it! You hadn’t been a dirtbag in that portable bush you call a tank, we’d have a clean shot to your flag!” Kirk responded in kind.

“You’re just mad you lost that keg, Fucker!”

“GODDAMN RIGHT I AM!” 

Dirk killed the engine. They’d get back to base, but it was better to let this work it’s way out. He leaned back. Maybe Dally would share this time.


End file.
